Closet Hearts and Clandestine
by The-Music-of-hands
Summary: She can hear the metallic cock of the gun as he flips the safety and she can hear his weary sigh. “In this world, killers can’t love, ‘Lena.” She laughs a strange gurgle, “Funny, two of them just did…” -Reno-Elena-


_A/N_

_Clandestine: Secret-_ _needing to be concealed, usually because it is illegal or unauthorized._

_Closet-_ _having beliefs or behaviors that are not openly acknowledged but kept secret._

_TMoh_

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_**Closet Hearts and Clandestine**_

* * *

_December _

It is silent after nine; the only audible sounds are the drunken murmurs of dirty executives wandering aimlessly in an inebriated limbo. The sky is beyond dusky, now just a lifeless gray, heaving the limp clouds across the dull cityscape, as the corners of what seem to be the end of the world are a rich blue. This is the only color she can see, dark blue, and the navy blue of her suit hugging comfortably against her thighs, the jacket being pulled closer and closer against chilled gooseflesh-like skin as she hugs herself close. Winter in the city is a lackluster sigh, full of smog and pollution that seems colder when frozen in the frigid evening air. The biting breeze that calls through the dripping alleyways is blowing through the fabric of her industrial work jacket, through the expensive Lycra threads, and the thumb sized buttons that only reach down to her navel. She has lived here her whole life, and once upon a time, she wasn't a girl who had a high society job, she was a slum rat, living off what charity there was and trash on the sidewalk. So, when she clacks down the pavement in those expensive shoes—an issued uniform for the company her team works for—she feels like a sort of betrayal.

Then again, planting a bomb in what used to be a friendly neighborhood, and then hunting down drug dealers, stealing down the trash in the night with her suit and that gun…it is a treachery. She almost feels guilty, until she sees him and that shock of stop sign red hair sauntering down the street. Jacket and dress shirt askew, the result of sleepless nights clutter his chin in a salt and pepper array of stubble, the smoke weaving and dancing through the air from the cigarette resting between his lips. He was the one hired to plant the bomb, hell, he even set it off—she was just back-up then—so she couldn't possibly feel guilty while looking at the man who had killed more children than all the orphanages in the city. That was a long time ago, though, and now he's dealing with it, dealing with the person he used to be.

Therefore, she waits for him at nine in the evening, seeing him stumble down the street, a cigarette curling smoke between his lips and another one unlit behind his ear. Though with the color of his hair, she really wouldn't be able to tell if he was on fire or not. They are both reformed, doing the various odd jobs, mostly paperwork and stopping new time pimps and heroin addicts. Two of four of the most infamous murderers, well, assassins—high-class folks willing to get their hands dirty for a couple paychecks—turned police force. She stifles a chuckle.

She could point a gun and hit his heart, whether alcohol was in her system or not. Bang! That was how it used to be, all adrenaline and death, and adventure rolled up into one delicious yarn ball. Now it is coffee and paperwork, and if they are lucky, a new assignment.

However, it really has been a long time.

He catches up, and that's when she notices the empty tequila bottle cradled loosely in his left hand, the liquid in the bottom sloshing messily over the rim and onto his curled fingers. She takes the bottle with a grunt, and smashes it against the sidewalk before wiping her hands nonchalantly on sleek navy slacks, grabbing his wrist while pulling him along. His lips turn into a grimace, as he slowly pushes out the words, the cigarette falling out onto the road "What the 'ell, 'lena?"

"You've had enough Reno; I'm taking you back to my place so you can sleep it off."

He licks his lips, a smoldering grin twitching at the ends, as his eyes, glassy and clouded, speculate her form. He brings the hand that she's holding, up to his lips, and she cringes, thinking that he's going to lick them. Then she feels the lightest of soft touches brushing against her knuckles and she sends an amazed look to him, while he is still staring at her with burning eyes. His face is uncharacteristically somber, as his breath—hot and silky—skims effortlessly against her clammy skin, so much like the smoke. She can't help but linger in his gaze, wondering for a moment what he means before shivering as he lets go, clasping both hands behind his neck, winking impishly in her direction.

"Well, where's home, eh?"

She won't, _can't_, trust her own voice at normal volume, so pulling out a ring of keys from a pocket, her trembling hands point at a brown apartment complex, and she manages to mutter out small squeaky syllables. "H-here."

She feels the pull of his arm around her waist, hands curling naturally against the fabric of her slim customary jacket. She finds herself wishing that it were thicker so she wouldn't have to feel his fingers, warm and bony against her stomach, lingering heatedly against the edge of her hipbone. She is pulling away, though his arm is still draped against her hip, and his lips are smiling against her neck, breath deliciously moist and warm. She unlocks the door, Number 6, stiffly trying to walk inside. He pulls his coat off, throwing it on the floor, while slipping off his cracked muddy dress shoes, leaning lazily against the doorway. Avoiding his catty look, she silently slips her shoes into a bin, and tugs the sleeves of her jacket, hanging it on one of three hooks on the wall.

"Do you want the couch or the bed?"

He is still grinning; one eyebrow tilted as she stares at the floor and at the little pointed bits of dead grass littering the entryway tiles.

"Why do you even bother asking anymore? You should realize…" He trails off, shuffling closer, the cigarette that once was behind his ear now trampled against the ground.

She doesn't realize it until he has her pressed against the wall, hands pinning her shoulders while his nose bumps against her neck. He nips at the skin, listening to her sharp gasp, and then rests his head against her chest, flashing that Cheshire grin while tugging at the buttons of her shirt with his teeth.

She pushes him away, fixing her white blouse, still feeling the bittersweet dampness on her neck, before walking stiffly into the living room.

Just to do something, she takes an already folded blanket and unfolds it, carrying it over one shoulder into her bedroom with him slinking closely behind. He plops onto the bed, immediately bringing his arms over his eyes as he still smiles, licking his lips slowly while stretching. This happens every night, after work, after nine…

It'll be cold, and it'll be bittersweet and in the morning, he'll leave in his suit, the only reminders that he was even with her, a still warmed dent in the pillow next to hers and her lack of clothing. She knows why he does it, it's not love, more like an indefinite hate, a hate for himself that he has to show. Moreover, she is his canvas, where he paints it on. She shakes her head—_disgusting—_but that is what they are, and she somehow loves him for it. She loves the way he looks at her and the way his hands run up her arms and down her waist. The way he presses his lips into the dip of her throat, and the way he says _her_ name.

She won't tell him, hell, she _can't_ tell him, because if by chance, she said to _anyone_ that _she_ loved _him_, then he would be gone for good, and she would never see him again. She can't risk that, risk being without him.

It's selfish, but that's the way Elena was made; and, it's the way she'll have to stay, if she doesn't want him to leave. Therefore, she will pretend to use him just as he does to her, though she is very sure that he's not pretending. As she pools the blanket on the ground, staring at the floor, she can feel his arms snake around from behind her, his long fingers deftly unhitching the buttons of her shirt. Soon enough, with a raspy whisper of cloth, the shirt joins the blanket cold on the ground, and he's kissing the nape of her neck, slowly ghosting words over her skin with feather light touches.

His fingers linger near her waistband, and that's when she cringes away from him, her eyes downcast. How can she do this with him, with someone she loves but who will never love her back?

"I can't…I c-can't do this…"

His face grows hard, his lips turned down as he starts to pace, one hand becoming tangled in the messy ponytail slung over his shoulder. She slumps, back arched as she cradles her arms over her exposed stomach, her mouth open in a dry but wet sob. He rasps quietly, stopping in front of the window, pulling back the curtain with one quaking hand.

"When were you going to tell me, _Elena_?"

She starts, staring up at him; he has never said her name like _that_ before…

"Tell you what? What have I _not_ told you?" she asks, her brown eyes half closed…

Whipping around, spit flying from lips as coal black eyes pierce into hers, his gaze is stone hard, skin pale and ashen as his arms flail in the air.

"When were you going to tell me that you fucking _loved_ me?!"

Choosing her words slowly, she looks back down at the floor, playing anxiously with the tassels on the blanket. "I _don't_ love you…"

She flinches as his hands grab her chin, forcing her to look up at him as his frown turns into a manic snarl. "Oh, that's rich, _Elena_, fucking rich." He stops, looking around before running his hands through his hair, "Fuck!"

She can see through the tears long enough to see him whip through the doorway, his harsh words echoing against the flimsy plaster walls as the front door slams shut.

"Don't you fucking _ever_ look at me again…"

And the last thing she can say is a silent _'Oh my god…' _before her body concaves into the blanket, and her bare arms prickle with jerking sobs.

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* * *

__Five months later_

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The first thing Elena thinks as she exits her office and stares at the clock that reads 9:00 p.m. is that it's not so quiet anymore. The early summer, late spring month brings an arrival of parties and pre planned vacations, the older men, and younger men fumbling through the streets whispering in their drunken singsong voices. Her hair is shorter, her ears have been pierced, and her suit is no longer navy blue, opted for a slimmer trimmed black business skirt, shiny pumps, and the same jacket turned black.

No more does she clack down the street in guilty reverie. At least, that's what she would like to think she does, walking with her back straight and her lips pursed into a confident line.

Nevertheless, even though her hair is cut, she is the same, if not worse.

There is a gun in her purse, depleted of its bullets, and if someone took the time to look closely enough, infinitesimal spatters of blood decorate the fine hem of her jacket. The first assignment in a while, the first assignment with _him…_

She tells herself as she unlocks the front door, jiggling the keys harshly ever since he last slammed it five months ago, that none of him has been left in her memory. The silence in her apartment judges her…

In addition, she's not surprised to see him sitting on her couch, his crisp black suit still on as he flips through a manila folder that had been under her pillowcase. Tossing her purse onto the coffee table, she walks into the kitchen with her shoes still on, flipping a burner on high. Dishes rattle in the sink as she twists the tap, holding a clear glass cup under the cold water before turning it off with another twist, her lips parting over the rim of the cup.

What she needs right now is _not_ water.

She doesn't dare drink anything more with him there.

She has always expected him to show up, just not that night,—just not this night—and as she finishes the water and tosses the cup into the sink, she doesn't know what she should do. She can't bear to move even as she feels him walk into the kitchen, his glare burning into her back like the tip of one of his cigarettes, smoldering into ashes against her skin. She speaks first, voice hard and unreadable as she stares insistently at a stain on the kitchen wall.

"What do you think you are doing here, in _my_ home, Reno?"

His feet clack closer, and she feels his grip on her shoulder, spinning her around to face him. Her eyes stare at his feet, mouth set into a line. Inside, she feels like crying, and she knows, he knows that all too well.

His hand twists her chin, so that she's looking into his eyes, "Look at me _Elena_."

They are glassy and he's not drunk, she's known him long enough to tell, and for some reason, there is a strange sort of softness, as if he's been hurting, like…he's about to die.

"You told me never to look at you again, Reno. What the fuck do you think I'm going to do?"

Suddenly, his arms wrap around her and pull her against his sinewy chest as he buries his face into her hair, words muffled and strangled. She feels some warm wetness on the bottom of his chin. Her finger lifts to touch it curiously, and then draws back quickly. This was never supposed to happen.

She was supposed to love, he was supposed to leave, and they were both supposed to keep those nine-o-clock meetings a secret. She can hear him a little more clearly now, because his lips are moving, moving, moving down her forehead and across her eyelids.

"You _stupid_ girl, you _stupid_, _stupid_ girl…"

And suddenly before she even has a thought that she can think, his lips are against hers, they're warm and not so soft, and his hands are suddenly everywhere she is. However, she cannot think and somehow say to him that she wants more, and more and more of him. His face is beautiful over hers, his lips open, blanketing her neck with pepper kisses, his hands under and over and inside, reaching. Then she is saying his name, repeatedly, grabbing his hair in her hand, tugging and pulling, whispering in his ear over and over again,_ "Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry…"_

And then, he pulls her as close as he can, trying to draw her in, his lips covering her mouth, his hands behind her head and the twisted arch of her back.

Before he can even control himself, his hands tangle in her hair this time and with the tears running down his cheek, she cannot stop from crying out herself.

"_I_ love you… I _love_ you… I love _you_…"

They're lying there in her kitchen, the kettle whistling a frantic tune as she struggles to regain her breathing, his eyes looking at her in an awed wonderment, as his finger traces her lips.

"I know."

She turns away, hurriedly pulling on his shirt as she shamefully pushes his pants towards him, every inch of her damp and trembling.

"This wasn't supposed to happen, I…oh god…you were…We were supposed to hate each other… If people knew…if they knew about…me…what I just said…they'd kill us both…They'd kill _you_ in front of _me_, and then hunt me down if I ran…"

She pulls her shirt on next, buttoning the middle buttons before standing up. He is already leaning against the counter, the pants just pulled on haphazardly over his hips.

"…'Lena…"

Holding her face in both hands, she doubles over.

"No! Don't say my name as if you know something I don't…just don't…God! Fuck! You…you need to get out!"

Grabbing her wrist in his hand, she finds her face once again in the crook of his shoulder, his chin resting on the top of her head.

"_Elena…"_

She's muffled, "Just don't talk Reno, and just don't say a damn thing… You said enough last time…"

"I love you, 'Lena. _I. Love. You._"

Now she's the one holding him closer, like he'll disappear if she let's go for even a second. But then she realizes what he means, she realizes what he meant five months ago.

'_When were you going to tell me that you fucking loved me?!'_

'_Oh, that's rich, Elena, fucking rich.'_

'_Fuck!'_

'_Don't you fucking ever look at me again…'_

'_If they knew about…me…what I just said…they'd kill us both… They'd kill you in front of me, and then hunt me down if I ran…'_

"Get it now, 'Lena? We're going to die anyway…"

He's rummaging through his pocket, as his other hand is holding her shoulder still. She stifles a laugh, chuckles, and then can't hold it in. Tears and giggles, and damn, she loves him.

"I am a fucking idiot…"

"I already told you that, sugar, already said it five months ago…"

After nine, it's silent, after ten, she can hear everything. She can hear his breathing, and she can hear her heart beating against his chest. She can hear the traffic and the drunken gale of the men in the next room. She can hear herself five months ago, and she can hear herself now.

She can hear the metallic cock of the gun as he flips the safety and she can hear his weary sigh.

"In this world, killers _can't _love, 'Lena."

She laughs a strange gurgle, "Funny, two of them just did…"

They're kissing now, foreheads bent together, and she's closing her eyes as he positions the gun behind her head. "So, say goodbye to this world, 'cause personally, I want to keep on loving."

Slowly, he closes his eyes, and pulls the trigger.

_End_

_A/N_

_I've had this idea for a while now. I've been wanting to do a picture like this, where their foreheads are touching and he has the gun pointed to the back of her head, because if he pulls the trigger, it'll kill them both .I decided, story before picture…_

_Feedback's always awesome!_

_Until next time,_

_TMoh_

_**Disclaimer: If I owned Final Fantasy Vll, then the Turks would be the main characters. Thus, it is plainly obvious that I don't own it.**_


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